Chronicles of the Wardens
by jollygreendragon
Summary: Centuries after the Golden Sun Event, the Warriors of Vale have faded into myth, legend and religion. But thanks to the gifts of the Wise One, they live on, ageless but in hiding, protecting Weyard from within the shadows. Episodic story, most shipping is not plot-relevant. Same canon as DoJ and MtE, but you don't need to read them to get what's going on.


**Golden Sun belongs to Nintendo and Camelot, not me. Support them if you like the series! I just write fanstuff. And if you feel like borrowing any of my original ideas, please, go right ahead.**

* * *

**Before you begin:**

**Chronicles of the Wardens is set in the same universe as my other Golden Sun stories; that means that it takes place after the events of both Drops of Jupiter and Means to an End. But it's a little more complicated than that when it comes to deciding spoilers.**

**This story WILL spoil Drops of Jupiter for you. In general, I'll do my best to explain backstory and setting aspects as I go along; you won't need to read DoJ first in order to enjoy this one, but you should be mindful of spoilers in case you ever do want to go back and read the previous story.**

**Means to an End, however, is being written simultaneously with this one. That means that, while I plan to link the two with references/hints/foreshadowing/(preshadowing? Is that a word?), they generally won't spoil each other. If a spoiler is unavoidable, I'll stick a warning in the opening of the page to tell any readers that it's coming. Other than that, any references to past events are there on purpose, and are intended to color your interpretation of MtE's events as sort of "bonus atmosphere" for people who are reading both.**

**You will probably have to have played all 3 Golden Sun games that exist at the time of this writing to completion in order to understand what's going on in this story whatsoever.**

**Other than that, read on! I hope you enjoy the story.**

* * *

"Wait, you're breaking up with me?"

They were dining at the Red Ribbon, a fancy restaurant in the middle of downtown Bilibin City. It was a Saturday night, and every seat was occupied. The tables were lit by candles, and the band in the corner of the massive central room was playing slow, romantic music. It was the kind of place where memories were made that would last a lifetime – a first date, an anniversary dinner, a wedding proposal. Most of the couples were so absorbed in each other that they were able to forget that anyone else was there. In fact, they were probably doing their best to convince themselves that they were alone. It just improved the atmosphere.

With that in mind, Mia Arowana was trying her best not to make a scene. But she felt it was important to get her feelings across first.

"But... but Mike, we've been doing so well! I mean, yeah, it's only been a few weeks, but-"

Her date sat across from her. His brown hair was neatly trimmed, and his outfit was crisp and tidy; a semi-formal suit for a semi-formal occasion. His eyes were squeezed half-shut, and his mouth carried a strange combination of smile and frown; it was the kind of expression one would show to a spoiled child as you told them that they were not allowed to have the toy they wanted.

"Mia," he said, "It just isn't working out. I mean, it's been obvious to me, and I thought you were getting the hints I was getting. I just don't feel like there's anything between us."

"Oh, so you invite me out to the fanciest restaurant in town for a romantic evening – which I loved, by the way, I would say this was an otherwise successful date – just to tell me that we have no future together?" Mia caught herself, noticing that her voice was getting louder and louder. People were starting to give her annoyed glances. She brought it back down to a whisper. "I guessed that you weren't satisfied, but I thought you were trying to sort things out. I was certainly trying to. We're compatible, aren't we?"

She was wearing a low-cut, light blue dress, just a few shades lighter than the color of her hair. Combined with her pale complexion, she looked like an ice sculpture, a work of art; with her hair hanging loosely just below her shoulders, and her muscles showing just the right amount of tone beneath her skin, she looked like a figure straight out of legend.

Or rather, she would have. The pout across her lips took away any air of mystery or hint of greatness that might otherwise have surrounded her.

Mike shrugged. "I don't know what to tell you," he said. "I just... don't feel like I'm getting anything out of this, you know? And I'm not talking about... y'know, taking it a step further or anything, I mean the relationship itself. There's no spark. There's no life. I feel like it'd be best for both of us to just see other people."

Mia sank back into her chair. She stared at her empty plate as if it was somehow to blame for her current situation.

"See other people. Yeah, fantastic," she said. "I've heard that a lot lately. I dunno, is it me? Am I doing something wrong? Be honest."

"You aren't doing anything wrong," Mike assured her. "I mean, you're beautiful. You're smart. You're fun to be around, and fun to talk to. It's just... you're not for me. Someday you'll find someone, but I'm just not that someone. I'm sorry."

"Please, Mike!" she begged. "Just... one more chance? Please?"

He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mia," he repeated, before standing up from his chair and walking silently out of the restaurant.

She turned to watch him leave, and then let her face fall into her hands. Another failed relationship. Was she doing something wrong, or was she just unlucky? He had been such a great guy, too. They had fun together. And he HAD invited her out to a romantic dinner. Why the hell had he done that if he was planning to dump her?

She took her head out of her hands, and looked over the table at the two empty plates, and the half-finished glasses of wine that stood on either side.

Oh, right. Because she was apparently paying for dinner. Bastard left her with the bill.

She sullenly placed her elbow on the table, placed her chin into her hand, and took several large sips from her wine glass. She'd paid for it, she might as well finish it.

As she let the drink take hold, she made sure to keep an eye open for her waiter to ask for the bill. She didn't want to stay at this damn restaurant any longer than necessary.

* * *

Having finally paid, Mia staggered out of the Red Ribbon and started heading down the street toward where she had parked her car. Her wallet was substantially lighter, thanks in part to the fancy restaurant prices, and in part to the fact that she had eventually decided that a second bottle of wine was in order. No sooner had her feet hit the sidewalk than her phone started ringing.

"Oh dear," she mumbled sarcastically, "who could that be?"

She fumbled through her purse for her cell and didn't bother checking the Caller ID. There was only one person in the world who would call with such impeccable timing. And as usual, she'd act like nothing was up, like she HADN'T actively foreseen the night's events. Just a friendly call that happened to come the moment Mia was free, to talk about an event that might have warranted comforting conversation.

Mia flipped the phone open. "Hey, Sheba," she groaned.

"_Hey, Mia. What's wrong? Is everything alright?"_

"Y'know damn well it isn't," Mia slurred. "I got dumped, and y'knew it before I did. Jus' didn't bother telling me, as usual. Y'know, just once, I'd love if you could warn me before I get my heart ripped in half, Miss Prophet. With your great many gifts, it just seems a lil' selfish to keep 'em to yourself."

"_...But if I told you, then you'd try to change things. Some things need to happen. Some relationships need to end. I'm sorry, Mia, but that's just the way it works-"_

"Bullshit!"

Mia tripped and almost fell in her high heels. She kicked them off, not bothering to watch where they went, not caring if she ever saw them again. She let herself collapse against a nearby brick wall. She didn't feel like she had the energy to walk. Idly, she sensed that it was going to rain very soon. She could not have cared less.

"You could tell me, and I could try, an' maybe I could make it work. An' if I screw up, then... I mean, it's my thing to screw up, not yours. Quit actin' like you know everything, just 'cuz you can see the future sometimes. Quit doin' stuff for my own good. Maybe... maybe I don't WANT my own good anymore."

There was a labored pause at the other end of the line, as if Sheba was trying to decide what to say next. Mia didn't give her a chance.

"I jus' figure, it's fine to make mistakes once inna while... 'specially if the only reason you're holding back from telling me is so I don't screw it up myself. I don't care if it hurts me more in the end. Jus'... tell me when stuff comes up, and lemme try and salvage it myself, right?"

"_Are you sure you're okay to drive?"_ Sheba asked. _"I can send somebody over to pick you up if you like-"_

Mia ignored her. "I mean, y'know what's gonna happen, and y'know what you'd do in my situation if y'knew... but y'can't tell me to do otherwise. It's just wrong. Even if you're doin' it for me. I mean... jus' cuz y'think I'd die or something, tryin' to change it... issall silly, right? Better t'try an' fail than find out later that y'had a chance to try an'... didn't take it..."

There was a pause.

"_Mia... you aren't talking about the breakup anymore, are you?"_

"Givva girl a priiiize!" Mia shouted sarcastically. "Jus' got to thinkin', I wouldn't be doin' this if 'tweren't for you. Wouldn't even be goin' through all this heartbreak-"

"_You also wouldn't be talking if it wasn't for me,"_ Sheba added. _"You wouldn't be breathing if it wasn't for me."_

"Couldda told me. Couldda said what you wanted me to do it for, instead of just lyin' like y'did."

"_If I'd told you, you would've tried to stop it. And you wouldn't have had enough time. And you would've died."_

"Worth a try anyways. Better dead 'n together than alive 'n alone."

At this point, Sheba responded with a long, enthusiastic rant about duty and responsibility and how you can't help humanity if you're dead. Mia didn't care. She let the hand holding the phone drop to the ground for about a minute, until the tinny voice drifting from it stopped its tirade. A few raindrops fell from the sky. Just a drizzle, but Mia knew there was more on the way. Whatever. Rain was rain. It never hurt anyone, least of all her.

She raised the phone back to her ear. "Yup, sounds great," she said, not caring if that was the requested response.

"_Mia, for gods' sake, I'm trying to help you! I'm trying to make it up to you!"_

"Good t'know you're only calling me to pay me back. Good t'know I'm so much more valuable to you alive than as a corpse. Keeps me breathin'. Keeps me from openin' up my wrists."

There was another pause before Sheba continued. _"Wow, uh... I'm not sure it's safe for you to be on your own tonight. Would you mind if I sent Jenna over? She may as well pick you up too, I didn't see everything but I definitely saw you getting a second bottle of wine, and if you're planning to drive-"_

" 'M fine. Car crash can't kill me. Be funny to see it try."

"_Mia."_

"Okay, okay..." she relented. "Fiiiiine. If it'll make y'feel better, I'll wait for Jenna or whoever y'rope in to doin' your dirty work as usual. No promises after."

"_We just want to help you, Mia. We're your friends, and we care about you-"_

" 'pparently not enough. Talk t'you next time somebody dumps me."

Mia hung up, and yanked the battery out of her phone before putting it back in her purse. By this point it had started raining in earnest, and her dress was thoroughly soaked. The world was still spinning, more than she'd admit, and even the warm, floaty feeling the wine had given her didn't block out all the turmoil in her head.

She took out her rage on the nearest trash can, kicking it ten feet in the air before calling about 20 pounds of razor-sharp ice shards to impale it before it landed. It would have landed in a puddle, but Mia froze the puddle into an icy stalagmite that – of course – also impaled the poor dustbin.

She staggered over and kicked it once more for good measure before dismissing the alchemical effects and grudgingly walking back to the restaurant's front entrance, where Jenna would undoubtedly be showing up within the hour.

Mia was too buzzed to realize that an onlooker had seen her display of anger. She hadn't realized that maybe a regular person would see that and know that it was a much higher level of psynergy than almost any living being could exhibit.

She hadn't realized that maybe, just maybe, that regular person would have some uncomfortable associations with that quantity and quality of alchemic talent.

An elderly man across the street waited until she was gone before taking out his own phone and making a terrified call to someone he had never expected to speak to again.

* * *

"Her name is Mia Arowana," said the director, tossing some surveillance photos across the table, "and we suspect that she is somehow related to a raid on one of Bilibin's weapons research labs some twenty years ago."

Agent Daniel Crockett, rising star in the Bilibin Secret Service and the best man available on such short notice, nodded silently and suppressed a yawn. It was four in the morning, and he was fighting the drowsiness as well as he could. He'd already downed a cup of coffee, but that only did so much. He reached across to retrieve the surveillance photos, hoping he would be coherent enough to examine them properly.

Their quality admittedly wasn't great. It had been a mere 31 hours since they received their tip from a former forensic agent, and they'd had to make do with what was available. They had her driver's license and passport photos, her birth certificate, her employment history, and all of her travel documents for the past fifteen years, but every agent in the BSS knew that firsthand experience meant the most when it came to surveillance. Having pictures at all was a blessing, even if they were grainy and shot from odd angles.

"Related how?" asked Crockett, taking one of the photos and settling back into the chair opposite Director Michael O'Brien. "You surely don't suspect her of being involved. Look at her, twenty years ago she'd have been a small child."

"Frankly, Agent Crockett, she's the best lead we have at the moment," replied the director. "Obviously it wasn't her who did it. But she might be related to the perpetrator, or associated with them. We don't know a thing about her yet. That's why you're here."

The director stood and walked around the table. He stopped next to the massive portrait of Madeline the Revolutionary, founder of Bilibin's world-renowned intelligence agency, and eyed it thoughtfully. It was nestled among an assortment of awards, medals and certificates, but they were placed haphazardly, without care or pride. Only the portrait seemed to matter; it stood out among the mess, and Crockett knew from the way the director looked upon it that the centuries-old painting was valuable to him even beyond its incredible monetary worth.

The director sighed. "The Bilibin Secret Service has defended our nation from the shadows for almost four hundred and fifty years. We've saved countless lives – heck, we've saved all of Weyard – on more than one occasion. And we have become exceedingly good at our jobs. That's why, when I tell you this is possibly the single most sensitive situation our service has ever faced..."

"Sir?" asked Crockett, leaning forward in his seat.

The director smiled weakly and shook his head. "Well, this assumes it's actually anything significant, of course. It's our job to take things seriously." But his expression, and the lines deepening on his forehead, spoke of his true anxiety. "We know nothing right now. For all we know, the tip we received was misinformation, or... or a mistake, or something. One can always hope."

"With respect, sir," replied Crockett, "hope isn't what I need. Information is. If the potential threat is as great as you say, there's no time like the present to start preparing."

"Quite right, of course," said the director. "Sorry, I... I don't often go off-track like this. The attack twenty years ago, however... well, I'll get to that."

Director O'Brien moved back behind his desk and flipped through the mission dossier before settling on a single sheet of paper, formally typed and double-spaced. He took it out and handed it to Crockett. "This is a transcript of a call we received just over a day ago from one Agent Richard Morgan," he said, "who retired shortly after the attack on the research lab in April of 485. He specialized in forensics, and he was responsible for examining the aftermath of the attack and delivering his reports."

Next, the director retrieved several photos and handed them over. "These are pictures of the interior of the installation, taken approximately two hours after the raid took place. I'd like to hear your impressions, if that's alright."

Crockett nodded, and examined the pictures carefully. The images stirred his memory, and for an instant he was reminded of a mission he had far north in Prox, a search through an abandoned military base. In the photos, as in the base, the hallways and rooms were simple and efficient, designed for function rather than form. Any equipment was shattered and broken, or scattered along the floor looking neglected. The windows were smashed. But most notably, there was ice and snow everywhere. Icicles hung from open doorways, and entire passages were cut off by layers of frost.

"Where was the base?" asked Crockett. "Imil? Tundaria?"

The director frowned grimly and shook his head. "The base was located about an hour or two north of Carverville. It was close enough to Bilibin City that we were able to get special forces on site within half an hour of the attack. By then the attack was over and the damage was done, but no, that is definitely not environmental in nature."

Crockett raised his eyebrows. "Sir, that can't be right. This looks like it's been exposed to the elements in an arctic environment for years, if not decades. Unless..."

The director nodded. "Go on."

Staring at the photos for several more seconds, Crockett continued. "This is from psynergy, isn't it? They'd have tested for that. That's the only other option I can think of – a team composed of powerful Mercury Adepts. Not commandos, either, or they'd have picked their targets more strategically. This isn't clean enough for that."

"Agent Morgan confirmed that the ice and snow were alchemical in nature, yes," said O'Brien. "What do you think?"

"My first assumption would be that the assault originated from Belinsk," said Crockett, "but like I said, this wasn't commandos, so it couldn't be the Knights. Belinsk's regular army only uses Mercury Adepts in a medical capacity, so it wouldn't be them either. I think we can rule the beastmen out. Possible terrorist cell, then, maybe Imilian separatists?"

The director frowned. "That's one possibility, but I certainly hope it's not the case. Whoever attacked our research base made off with nearly one hundred Vortex warheads."

Crockett choked. "_What!_"

"Exactly. The good news is, it's been twenty years, and nobody seems to have used them yet. The bad news is that they might still have them, and we aren't even sure who 'they' are."

Crockett took a deep breath and tried his best to maintain his composure. "Surely you have more information, though. The agency would have gone utterly ballistic. Do you have fingerprints? Profiles of people involved? What about the installation's security cameras?"

The director tented his fingers.

"Agent Crockett," he said, "what I am about to tell you is extremely sensitive information. It is absolutely need-to-know, and you cannot share it with anyone, even others within the organization. If we need more people involved, I will tell them, not you. But it is essential to your pursuit of this case. I will give you one chance to turn the mission down, because once I have told you what you need to know, you are either with us or against us. Do you understand?"

Crockett nodded without hesitation. "Yes, director. I accept." One hundred Vortex warheads missing, and this was their only lead? It would be irresponsible to turn it down if he could help at all. Only one Vortex missile had ever been launched in history, and it was enough to prove that it should never happen again. "What do we know about the people who took the warheads?"

The director paused for a moment, and closed his eyes. "You are making several incorrect assumptions, Agent Crockett. Understandable ones, yes, but terrifyingly incorrect. The first of these is your assumption that the warheads are what we're worried about. There is something much worse than that."

Crockett quietly doubted that, but he nodded.

"The second is that we know anything at all," continued the director. "Whoever planned this attack was incredibly thorough. There were no survivors onsite, and nearly all security cameras and sensors were destroyed, their information irretrievable. All we know is that it was a Mercury Adept, for reasons you can plainly see."

Agent Crockett started to nod again, but stopped midway. "Sir," he said, "you meant 'at least one' Mercury Adept, right? You said it was _a_ Mercury Adept, but-"

"No, agent. I know what I said," replied O'Brien slowly. "That was your third assumption. You asked what we knew about the people who took the warheads. And though almost all of the equipment that would have told us was destroyed, we do have enough information salvaged, from entry and exit times, from attack patterns, to know that this was a one-man assault. The damage you see was performed by a single Mercury Adept, attacking on their own, and it was all performed in the space of about twenty minutes."

Crockett paused.

"That can't be right, sir," said Crockett. His hands shook as he threw the photos back on the director's desk. "I've seen the kind of damage a trained Adept can do. I'm a Venus Adept myself, and I can do some impressive things, if I say so myself. I've faced teams of the Knights of Belinsk, some of the most powerful Adepts on the planet. I know you have too. It's inconceivable that one single person could do all of this."

The director nodded. "That's what we thought, but if you look at the incident report, the evidence is clear. Twenty years ago, one unknown, immeasurably powerful Mercury Adept assaulted a major research base and stole an entire arsenal of the most devastating weapon known to mankind, leaving no survivors in his wake. We don't know his end goal, we don't even know his allegiance. Agent Morgan quit after that incident, as did a fair number of others who understood the implications. And we were dead in the water until just over a day ago."

Crockett looked at the transcript he was still holding, the transcript of Agent Morgan's telephone call. He didn't need to read the entire thing to confirm what he had already realized.

"The girl, Mia," he said, "she demonstrated the same kind of power."

"Crockett, the girl apparently got mad at a garbage can and poured more psynergy into it than a trained special forces team. That doesn't happen. Ever." The director leaned back in his chair. "We need to know what we're dealing with. It's possible that she's a blood relative of the man who assaulted our installation – a daughter, maybe, or a cousin. It's also possible that she simply gained this power from the same source. We can amplify psynergy already; perhaps someone has just figured out how to do it better. Regardless, it's your job to find out."

Director O'Brien sorted to the back of the dossier, and pulled out several documents and cards. "She is currently employed as a librarian at the University of Bilibin. You will approach her under the name David Jones, and you will claim to be studying theology. You-"

"Apologies, sir, but... theology?"

The director raised an eyebrow.

"I'm an atheist, director," said Crockett. "Is theology really the best option?"

"It's her department of choice, agent. It will give the appearance of common ground between you, allowing you to strike up a friendship as you get close enough to learn her secret. If you don't feel knowledgeable enough, then you have until this afternoon to saturate yourself. She works today, and we cannot waste time. You need to make a connection before she goes home."

"Understood, sir," replied Crockett, hiding his disappointment. "I'd best get started."

"Your identification and supporting documents are in this dossier," said the director. "Tell us any relevant information as soon as it is safe to provide. Aside from that, usual covert mission procedures apply. Any questions?"

"None."

"Then good luck, Agent Crockett."

Crockett nodded a thank-you, then gathered up the dossier and walked out of the room. He hoped that he wasn't visibly shaking as he strolled down the hallway.

As he stepped into the elevator that led to the surface – for the Bilibin Secret Service headquarters was deep underground, in one of the most secure locations in all of Weyard – he opened the dossier for one last look at the subject's personal information.

Mia Arowana. Twenty-seven years old, icy blue hair, eyes the same color. Rather attractive, actually, and she was only a year younger than him. Born in Imil, no information available on living relatives. And she apparently wielded enough firepower to take on an army single-handedly.

Daniel Crockett rolled his eyes. A monstrously powerful Mercury Adept named Mia who grew up in Imil and studied theology. Someone had to be playing a prank. What was next, the return of the Djinn?

* * *

**Historical Commentary: The Eight Wardens of Weyard**

**According to legend, the Wardens, as they are called colloquially, were eight powerful adepts personally selected by The Wise One himself to act as the guardians of the elemental Djinn, keeping a close watch on them and ensuring that the general population never gained widespread access to their destructive powers. Each Warden was involved, in one way or another, in the lighting of the four Elemental Lighthouses, unleashing alchemy upon the world once more. As such, each Warden had proven himself or herself to be a highly capable Adept in their own right. Legends state that the Djinn drastically improve the physical and alchemical capabilities of any Adept who wields their powers. Because each Warden holds exactly half of all the existing Djinn of their element (four elements, two Wardens per element), this would imply godlike or nearly-godlike powers relative to the average human being.**

**The Wardens, according to lore, were granted immortality centuries ago in order to help them perform their divine duties. They withdrew from society to hunt and secure all remaining Djinn shortly after the titles were bestowed, and there are no recorded instances of their return in any official capacity. Indeed, there is no evidence that they existed in the first place; if they did, their talents have likely been exaggerated over time. The fact remains however that many believe the Wardens still watch over them, some even revering the group in a religious manner, as saviors or even as deities themselves. "Warden sightings" are commonplace but unsubstantiated, and definitive photographic evidence has never been collected.**

"_**Frankly, if the Wardens do exist, I'm not surprised they stay underground. Some folk are just nuts about them – 'The Wardens work in mysterious ways,' and whatnot. Plus... well, let's just say that some OTHER higher powers might not be too pleased to hear about immortal godlings hiding out among the general population. -Ed"**_

* * *

_AUTHOR'S NOTES:_

_Okay, that didn't take as long as I thought it would._

_Woo! So excited to finally get a start on this! This is my take on a modern Weyard, set in the year 505AS (505 years After Sun). The technology level is more-or-less what we've got now, with some minor changes due to the setting. And yes, while there are a few OCs, each story will mostly centre on the characters you know and love._

_The format will be episodic, for the most part. Each episode will be maybe 4-8 chapters, I'm guessing, though I don't have a set-in-stone framework for any of them yet. The current plan is to end every chapter with a flavor piece, like the encyclopedia-esque entry you see above; I aim to show, not tell, but some people (myself included) like having extras like that just for added immersion._

_I've got gripping plotlines, dramatic events, and high hopes. Hope you'll like it as much as I do!_

_Reviews and criticism is always welcome, and I'd love to hear what you think._


End file.
